


Sleep

by Cyrelia_J



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Twisted Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 15:04:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6525073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyrelia_J/pseuds/Cyrelia_J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Austria doesn't sleep; but he watches when Prussia does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> This is a somewhat poetic look at the two kings of denial. Totally the result of me cranking a few songs on loop and running with it. I can't help but sometimes see Austria and Prussia as having the greatest tragic romance that's entirely of their own making. Anyway, C&C always welcome. Thought i'd take a chance with the structure and formatting and see where it goes.

Austria doesn’t sleep. Or rather, when the world sleeps, and there’s nothing in the sky but those faint celestial bodies, Austria chooses to remain awake. Instead he chooses his moments during the day- a brief close of his eyes on the sofa while reading a book, a small tip of his head to the wall on the window seat that faces south when the sun is the warmest. Sometimes on a warm summer day there’s a spot nicely worn out near the largest tree in Germany’s garden that he finds particularly inviting after lunch. He always finishes that lunch. Prussia will eat it otherwise and he’d sooner tear a sandwich to a dozen angry petty pieces and throw it to the birds than ever let Prussia have a crumb of it.

Prussia watches him. Or rather, Prussia stalks him in those daylight hours from the shadows, a second shade to the darkness Austria’s own figure casts, always a mote in his eye, that disappears the moment that he turns his head. He catches sight of him most often upon waking, upon putting the spectacles back on his face from a short nap. He’s always taken advantage of Prussia’s unwavering belief that he cannot see without them and he’s long mastered the art of seeing while appearing blind, hazy, eyes unfocused just enough to hold that illusion. Half blind, clumsy, those are his most carefully cultivated weaknesses and he’d sooner stab out his own eyes with twin brooches than ever let Prussia question a hint of it.

Austria hates Prussia. Or rather, there is some emotion that seizes him with such a maddening intensity when he feels those eyes on him, that he knows it could not possibly be anything other than loathing from the deepest depths of his being. Every time for every day, every month, every year that Prussia has watched him, he’s felt his heart beat so wildly and so loudly in his chest that he almost dreams Prussia stalks him for the sole purpose of that “pah-thump” echoing for both their ears. He feels it when he meets Prussia’s eyes, hot, angry, all  consuming until he can barely breathe and more often than not Germany needs to separate the two of them. But Austria would sooner rend every layer of skin from his body than ever let Prussia touch a spot of it.

Prussia doesn’t sleep either. Or rather, Prussia retires to bed at exactly the same time every night, even if he’s seemingly spent the entire night drinking and carousing. At twenty two hundred hours, for the last hundred years that he’s kept watch, Austria knows that he’ll retire, clap down the basement stairs like a wind up bird and fall face first to the pillow after an evening toilet. Austria often wonders if such an affect isn’t performed with the intent to smoother himself into some final repentant rest. After all, Prussia’s sleep is never restful, never a peaceful slip into that oblivion dust that he seems to desperately crave, but instead an eternal torment of some subconscious inferno conjured from the depths of Prussia’s broken and blackened little soul. And yet Austria would sooner steal a hundred thousand hours of his own peaceful slumber than ever let Prussia endure a second of it.

Austria watches him. Or rather, Austria walks around the bed, knowing the exact spots of the steps which make the least amount of sound, his boots left carefully untied just inside the doorway at the top. He knows that Germany will ask no questions when he rises from the couch, from his magazine without a word and head to that door. Austria considers that he may very well have worn a hole in the spot of the floor where he kneels, almost supplicant, as if in prayer, his face near enough Prussia’s to feel his breaths when he begins to dream. He imagines there may even be a dark hair on the pillow that goes unquestioned in the morning as he presses his head to the side of it and starts to softly sing, _“Der mond ist aufgegangen...”_ He sings it just low enough, thinking that he’d sooner lose the very power of speech than ever let Prussia hear a sound of it.

Prussia hates Austria. Or rather, he’s certain that there’s no rather to it. There could never be anything but hatred between them as long as they both exist in the same time. Austria sings soft, strong, seeing that furrow between Prussia’s brow calm to smoothness, that deep frown uncoiling and relaxing once more. Austria lets that darkness hide them both as he carefully spider dances his fingers over Prussia’s hand pressed to the mattress, just in front of his face. He lets his eyes soften as Prussia’s hand turns in his own and seems to hold on for dear life. Austria knows how long each of those songs are, knows exactly how many to sing to keep time in a world where such a thing doesn’t exist before Prussia wakes and sees him on his knees. He also knows how to gracefully rise, how to turn away, and take three steps back to the wall when Prussia staggers to the bathroom in the middle of the night. He’d sooner throw himself out the window than ever let Prussia see a second of it.

They kiss. Or rather, Prussia stops in front of Austria in the dark room, eyes that should be rimmed with sleep and dreams instead piercing his with a painful clarity. There are two sets of eyes that meet and perhaps blink once or twice but more often not. There’s a deep breath, usually from Prussia, but sometimes not and a single word breathed out. That single word is only ever spoken by Prussia. That single word is his name, _“Roderich”_ breathed into the darkness with such agonizing reverence that Austria has no other choice but to step three steps away from the wall and touch his fingers to Prussia’s lips as if he could feel the afterimage of his own name spoken on sleep dry lips, and memorize every motion to hold eternal in a box darkly tucked away in his soul. It starts with Austria’s name and it ends with his hand dropping down to be replaced by his mouth, sealing the secret of that moment between them with a count of four breaths that’s nothing but soft breathing before it’s Prussia who steps back with lowered eyes to the bed. Austria pretends not to notice. That pause is just long enough for him to close his eyes and blink to existence a dream world that should remain just that. That pause is just long enough that he could sit, could raise his head and meet those eyes one more time, reach out a hand, and-

 

But he doesn’t.

 

Austria would sooner die and ever let either of them acknowledge the truth of it.

**Author's Note:**

> The line that Austria sings is the first line of "Der Mond ist aufgegangen", an old German folksong/lullabye.


End file.
